


A Taste of Truth

by grim_lupine



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, POV Second Person, Porn Battle, Scheming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-09
Updated: 2012-02-09
Packaged: 2017-10-30 20:58:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/336009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grim_lupine/pseuds/grim_lupine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You would have Albus even if this were not the outcome, for you knew the moment you met him that you were kindred souls; he only needed a little convincing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Taste of Truth

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the porn battle, prompt: Dumbledore/Grindelwald, doubt

-

\--

You would have Albus even if this were not the outcome, for you knew the moment you met him that you were kindred souls; he only needed a little convincing. Never have you met anyone who has been a match for your mind and your passions; he is a breath of fresh air in a world you had thought devoid of brilliance.

And so it is no hardship for you to smile at him coquettishly and drape yourself across his bed like a parcel waiting to be opened, but the added benefit is this: _he doesn’t doubt._

All the convincing you have done with your words and your magic and your insistence, they have set the path for you, taken out the foundations of his proper morality and his hesitance to let himself be great; for the final touch, the last tap of a hammer that will bring down the wall, you use this.

He forgets to doubt you when you fall on your knees and draw his cock free of his clothing, when you open your lips teasingly over the head and wait until his choked groan to move further; when you look up through your lashes and let him surge forward, and suck him until he finishes in your mouth, swallowing it like milk to your throat. He had only ever had women before you. You will make sure he never goes back.

(You are on your knees in the here and now, but with your mouth, you bring him down more permanently than he could imagine.)

Albus doesn’t doubt you when you tap your wand against your chest and lose your clothing, a piece at a time; no, then he is too busy watching you with dark eyes and a flush spreading down his chest, hands clenching and opening on his own thighs.

“Would you like me to open myself up before you fuck me?” you ask him, crudely, you with the curling golden hair and the face of an angel. The dichotomy has his heart _pounding_ , you know; you can see the beat of his pulse in his throat.

“Or would you prefer to do it yourself?” you continue, a smile of teeth and challenge. Lion-hearted, scarlet-haired to match his temper, he could never resist a goad. Least of all from you.

When he presses two fingers inside you and watches you _writhe_ (shameless and all exhibition, but does that make it any less real?), glasses slipping down his nose, his blue eyes intent and so serious for someone your age, he never looks wary; only hungry, or shy, or wicked or smug or some combination of them all.

There can be no doubt in him when you let him press your wrists into the bed, fuck you until you both go off with the quickness of youth, fuck you again when you have caught your breath half an hour later, fuck you while your legs go up and your body arches back and your teeth sink into the meat of his shoulder, fuck you as even you forget, for a moment, that there is more to this moment than feeling his cock drive inside you and the magic in the both of you singing out to each other, skin the sole barrier left to breach.

Slowly, like feeding a needle through someone’s skin so delicately they never notice, you have chiseled away the things that hold him back, hold him away from you; you have fanned the flames of everything within him that _wants_ , wants to be what you see in him; you have driven out those things most dear to him and replaced every last one with yourself.

“What are we doing, Gellert?” he asks you once, fingers slipping down the curve of your hip with the unthinking possession his body already knows, that only his mind has still to accept.

You smile at him, wind your fingers into his hair and threaten him wordlessly with teeth, and _oh_ , glorious boy, his eyes only darken at that; “Making a future,” you tell him decisively, and this is not the honey-syrup voice you use to get your way with everyone else, for he is too intelligent for that.

You want him, by your side and in your bed and at your right hand; you want him for a _reason_ , after all, because he is so much more than anyone else you have ever known, and for that you will give him the greatest gift possible, coming from you: a taste of the truth.

He never asks again.

\--

-


End file.
